We Used to be Friends
by C'estMoiLiz
Summary: An old friend of Sherlock's turns up at a crime scene and has no recollections of the time they spent together. As Sherlock struggles over telling her who he is, darker forces are at work.  Sherlock/OC, pre-Reichenbach
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_A long time ago_

_We used to be friends_

_But I _

_Haven't thought of you lately at all_

1.

John looked anxiously up at Sherlock, practically hopping along beside him in an attempt to keep up. He had rarely seen the man move this fast, and for a moment he allowed himself to become absorbed in the steady focus on his face – then John reminded himself what was coming up and, with a quick turn of the heel, stopped directly in front of Sherlock. Watching him skid to a halt was an experience as long limbs flailed in an attempt not to crash; finally Sherlock's features folded into a scowl.

'John, what on earth is the matter with you? Come on –'

'Um, Sherlock, there's something I need to talk to you about. Something Lestrade asked me to tell you.' As John paused to scratch the back of his neck and wrinkle his nose up a little, wondering how to handle this, Sherlock had snatched John's arm, demanding that they _walk and talk._ John knew that letting him watch CSI had been a mistake; he was coming out with these ridiculous phrases all the more often. Puffing a little as Sherlock dragged him along, he began, 'no, Sherlock, you see –'

It was too late. They were here, on a river bank some way out of London. The stones rumbled under John's feet as they skidded to a halt, Sherlock sticking his hands in his pockets and frowning, head tilted to one side. Typical thinking pose. Lestrade hovered nearby, waiting stiffly for Sherlock's reaction; after a moment he turned to John and mouthed,

'I thought I asked you to –'

He was interrupted by a shrug from John and Sherlock's low, smooth voice asking,

'Who are you?'

There was a beat of silence; for one peaceful moment all John could hear was the sound of rushing water and bird song. It was sunny – a nice day. He thought how nice it might be to come alone – maybe with a girlfriend. Perhaps he could bring Sarah along with a picnic –

'I'm sorry, did you not hear me? What's going on here?'

The girl, bent over the body, straightened and eventually turned, a smile on her face. She was tiny, framed almost comically in an enormous cardigan, her messy hair pulled up into a pony tail – ready to work. Not here to impress, then. She smiled and held out a hand to Sherlock, her grin fading a bit at the man's stony expression.

'Sophie O'Malley,' she told him, sticking out her hand. John watched Sherlock carefully, rocking back on one foot for a moment. He wasn't sure what he was expecting – an explosion, maybe. Sherlock Holmes literally spontaneously combusting; it would certainly make life easier, if not a little more boring. He certainly wasn't expressing the barest lift of the lips – a blur of recognition before his face retained his normal stern countenance. People only would have seen it if they had been thoroughly scrutinising him; Sophie certainly wasn't. She had turned, slightly, distracted by the screech of a seagull, not noticing the slight hitch of breath that only someone stood as close as she was could have heard. Turning back, she retracted her hand with a light shrug.

'What's she doing here?' Sherlock asked Lestrade, rather distinctly not looking at Sophie as he tugged off his gloves – as if he were preparing for a fight. He straightened his shoulders, ruffled a hand through his hair; turning back into himself again. Preparing the front.

'Sophie's agreed to give us a hand with some cases; she's been very kind,' Lestrade smiled, nodding towards Sophie who blushed, looking down at her feet.

'It was nothing. I enjoy it.'

Sherlock took a step towards Lestrade; they were practically nose to nose. It remained like that for a tense few seconds, until Sherlock finally started up,

'You pay her! You _pay her_ – how much! Is it per case or hour? My God, really –'

'Sherlock,' Lestrade muttered, his voice low in warning. 'Don't be rude.' He at least had the sense to look uncomfortable. Sherlock wheeled on the girl, his coat fluttering in the wind – but she had disappeared. Kneeled, now, next to the body, the dampness of the pebbles soaking in through her leggings as she shivered uncomfortably. She pulled up the eyelids of the corpse, then inspected his fingernails.

'He just turned up here – no form of identification in his pockets. A wallet, but all the cards were taken that gave his name or address. Just some junk left in there. Washed up from the river; we can't find any matches for his picture on anything. It's a total mystery,' Lestrade told Sherlock as John pressed a hand to his forehead.

Sherlock kneeled down next to the girl, beginning to flip through his coat pockets. Double checking. As he sat in silence, the girl started up abruptly,

'I need the money, that's all – Lestrade's a family friend, he offered me the job –'

'Yes, thank you for your pleasantries, but I'm _working_. Kindly be quiet.'

Sherlock was quick – confident. It was barely a few seconds before he started up,

'He has a manicure – his suit's expensive too. So an office worker then. Neat shoes – everything's not just neat it's _perfect_. Pristine. Hair not just combed but gelled – look how it's stuck, even after he's been floating down the river. He's middle-aged, upper-class – his face doesn't match any security records then? So either he's from out of the country – _or_. Very, _very _top-secret agent. The country's secret weapon. That would explain the bullet hole – it's from no hum-drum pistol. Judging by the size and the fact that the bullet came out the other end, it's the Varsity L19; the most high-tech stuff going. Lestrade – get my brother on the phone. Case solved – I suppose we won't be needing your help, Soph –' here he stopped. John watched him again, whilst everyone else was still absorbed. Lestrade desperately scribbling notes, Sophie studying the body. The same hitch of breath, a choke at the name, before he started up again after barely a pause, 'Miss O'Malley.'

Sherlock straightened, began to walk away – they all began to walk away, bar John. He still watched Sophie as she peered closer at the body; then she went rigid. Scrabbling into the pockets, she pulled out the wallet and began frantically poring through the so-labelled "junk" that had been left in there. Finally she held out a hand, not even turning, calling out,

'_Stop!_'

**A/N: I am warning you guys now that this story will contain:**

**swearing **

**references to drug use**

**sex**

**I gave it a K rating because you don't get ratings on books, and I wanted people to come in with an open mind. I'll put warnings the chapter before if anything explicits going down (so far we have one sex scene that I've written, so we're doing well folks!).**

**Expect swearing throughout. **

**I DON'T LIKE CENSORSHIP OKAYS?**

**Also I hope you like this! If you review I will buy you cookies and send them to you***

***By cookies I mean virtual cookies and by "send them to you" I mean write you a lovely thank you message.**


	2. Chapter 2

2.

_Rusty guns fire rusty shots_

_Leopards never change their spots_

_But I swear to you darling_

_One day we'll stand beneath a blue moon_

_(Passenger: Month of Sundays)_

The figures on the river bank froze when Sophie stood, a smile trembling over her face as she waved the wallet.

'What Mr Holmes said was plausible but – come, come, have a look. Please,' she smiled, as if she were inviting them to come in for a cup of tea. Lestrade hurried over; reluctantly, Sherlock followed, with as slow a walk as he could make it. Sophie waited for him, arms folded behind her back, until he appeared and she smiled. Kneeling down again, she breathed, '_watch_.' Slowly, she stuck her fingernail into the bullet hole, producing a grimace from John – but eventually her finger caught on something and she began to lift. With her other finger she scrabbled at the man's neck line, just below the collar, finally pulling a layer of skin from the man's face. Yet as Sophie lifted something, odd was revealed.

Instead of the red, round face, a thin, pale face was revealed. Sharp cheekbones, pale eyebrows, cold eyes. Thin lips – the two faces couldn't be more different.

'Prosthetics. The man was wearing a mask – _that _was why he didn't show up on any camera checks. Sherlock was right – he was an agent. But I don't think Mycroft would recognise him. He ate at Trojka today – it's a Russian restaurant near Regent's Park. It was a few hours earlier; he kept the receipt, but why? He's a business man, so expenses maybe. Then there's the stub of the airline ticket – I can see how you missed that, it was buried in amongst a load of old change. Moscow to England. Most importantly, though, is the marks on his fingers – he'd been holding a gun for more than a few hours. Involved in a shoot-out – perhaps something like...' Sophie trailed off, rootling through her hand bag and eventually pulling out a newspaper, jabbing a finger at the first page. '_Downing Street on High Alert as code from Russia is deciphered,_' she read proudly. 'There was a shoot out at Downing Street today; the man was a double agent. Look at the ink stains on his fingers; he's been breaking codes at all sorts of hours in the morning. Had a phone on him, but built like a brick, no eye problems, had no reading glasses – he wasn't a technology man. He liked to work with pen and paper, copying down from a screen, judging by the eyes. There's a tattoo in Russian too, on the back of his neck; it was hidden by the mask before. Oh, the _mask _– I expect it was Number Ten, not wanting him to get recognised. He was probably a good marksman; they wanted them on his side. But he _was _recognised, and his former friends and colleagues shot him in cold blood.' Sophie stopped abruptly, the elation rushing from her face. Her job was done now – she was unsure again. 'Was that – was that alright? It sounds plausible, right?'

There was silence. Then Lestrade nodded.

'Sally – can you call Barker, tell him to ring up Number Ten. Tell them their agent's been blown. Anderson – take this back to the lab and scan it, we can check where the mask came from. This is just another one of those government secrets, I'm afraid – keep the press away. No comment on all accounts, alright?'

Sherlock stood there, his mouth dropped open.

'Lestrade, you're not going to listen to her over me –'

'Sherlock, look me in the eye and tell me she's wrong,' Lestrade told him firmly. Sherlock gaped like a goldfish for a moment, then finally turned away, a scowl on his face, towards John. Considering he was trying very hard to hide laughter behind his hand, this was not the best move for Sherlock to save face – and eventually he moved away, shoulders hunched, muttering something under his breath that John couldn't quite catch as he stalked off.

'I think I upset him,' Sophie told John a little sadly as they watched Sherlock kick miserably at pebbles a while before furiously pulling out his phone and jabbing at keys.

'It doesn't take much. Sorry he was rude; if it's any consolation he's like that with everyone.'

'It's okay; me, invading on his territory like that. Must have been weird. Surreal. Sorry, I didn't get your name?'

'No one ever does,' John chuckled, before holding out a hand. 'John Watson.'

'Nice to meet you. Look, let me make it up to you and Sherlock; I'm going back into the centre of town – let me pay for a cab. Do you live anywhere near 221B Baker Street?' Sophie asked politely, her face verging on desperate when John's expression dropped, ending up somewhere around his knees.

'Oh, Sherlock is _not _going to like this,' he murmured hollowly, waving his friend over. 'Christ, I forgot to even _tell _him –'

'Sorry,' Sophie interrupted, her delicate features folding inwards. 'What's going on?'

'Sherlock, meet our...' The words nearly got stuck in his throat. He wasn't looking forward to the tantrum he expected his friend to throw. 'Meet our new neighbour.'


	3. Chapter 3

Surprisingly – no, _shockingly_ – there was no tantrum. Sherlock simply nodded – admittedly a little sulkily – and remained in silence. Silent in the walk up the river bed to the main road, silent as Sophie called a taxi, silent as they waited, silent for about half the drive until finally he sat forward, his chin rested on his hands.

'Analyse me, then. A corpse is easy – they're not moving, you can thoroughly inspect them without their protesting and you can look through all their stuff. Now look at _me_. Prove yourself.'

Sophie looked up at him, flickered an easy eye up and down before continuing,

'Addicted to cocaine and morphine and, contrary to popular belief, you're not a virgin. Quite an active sex life a few years ago, actually.'

And with that she gave a small yawn and settled back into her newspaper.

'Bulimia. A recent sufferer; you've only just got over it. You've worked in the police force for a number of years – before that you lived on the streets. But the bulimia – that's the most important thing.'

The girl continued to look down at her newspaper – but her face was flushing red and she buried her face a little deeper into the text.

However, in Sherlock, for once the front was gone. It was not offense at being analysed, or irritation at Sophie being right. There was desperation in his face, as he rushed a hand through his hair, and lent forward until he was a few inches away from the girl opposite him, their knees bumping a little.

'Sophie,' he said quietly – almost under his breath. Slowly the girl looked up, a frown on her face.

'Yes?' She asked, confused at the abrupt proximity as she leant back in the seat. Sherlock followed suit, rolling his head up to the ceiling of the taxi cab, rolling his lips together.

'Nothing,' he eventually puffed out.

'I said, _nothing_!'

'No, it wasn't nothing – that was... _Human_, back in that cab. Something's going on, and I don't appreciate being kept in the dark,' John snapped.

'Will you keep your voice down! She's right downstairs,' Sherlock hissed, stalking around the apartment as he threw his scarf on the sofa.

'You don't seem to have any problem when we're talking about how much you hate Mrs Hudson's scones,' John snarled back, only to be met with the horrified cry of,

'_What?_' From the afore-mentioned woman downstairs.

'Oh, no, Mrs Hudson, I –'

Two doors slammed at once. The one to Mrs Hudson's apartment, and the one to Sherlock's room. Burying his face in his hands, John sighed. He could just imagine the framed periodic table wobbling on the wall as Sherlock noisily pulled out his desk chair.

In his room, Sherlock threw his head into his hands, crumpling his face up.

_Sophie O'Malley_, he thought, mouthing the name under his breath. Remembering the taste of it – of her – on his tongue. _Christ._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three**

Sherlock sat, fidgety with irritation, fiddling with the safety catch on his gun. _On. Off. On. Off._ He wondered if he located the exact source of the sound he could send a bullet down there that would blast whatever dreadful C.D. player was making the god awful sound. He sat, slumped, across the sofa, before removing the bullets from the gun and slipping them into his pocket before melodramatically raising the gun to his chin and pulling the trigger, enjoying the dry click it produced. As John tore through the apartment, searching simultaneously for his jacket – _in the sink _– and his house keys – _in the fruit bowl _- Sherlock called out,

'Do you hear that?'

John stopped, looking around him.

'What?' His eyes were wide – distracted.

'The blasted _music_!' Sherlock snapped, standing up with an audible _thump_.

'I can't hear anything – Sherlock, why are you in your pyjamas? It's only four o clock,' John frowned, an eyebrow raised as he studied his erratic flat mate.

'Oh, I didn't get out of them. Do you seriously not hear that racket?'

'It's not like we didn't get a complaint last week from next door because of you playing the violin at three o clock in the morning,' John sighed, the sarcasm practically weighing him down as he retrieved his jacket from the fridge and his house keys from the fruit bowl. 'I'm going to Sarah's.'

'Oh – have you two got back together?' Sherlock asked vaguely.

'I'm going to hers now to talk things through – oh, and Sherlock!' John appeared round the door again, his face serious. '_Don't _be rude to Sophie.'

Sherlock sat in anxious silence for a good five minutes after John was gone; finally he straightened, irritation marking his face as he crossed his arms against his chest. He pulled himself up from the sofa, unfolding his long frame, and padded, bare-foot, downstairs, the music increasing in volume with every step. Mrs Hudson appeared round her doorway, a worried frown marked across her face.

'Are you going to talk to Sophie?' She asked cautiously, looking up a particularly fearsome Sherlock up and down as he curled his dressing gown around himself.

'Yes – I cannot concentrate with all this bloody noise!' He snapped, despite the fact he didn't have to raise his voice to be heard above the slight pulsing music floating in through the door. 'I thought you said no one wanted this flat because it had damp?' Sherlock scowled.

'Oh, well I put the price down so low she took it – said she had a friend who could fix it. She's a lovely girl – don't be _too _rude, will you Sherlock?'

'Why does _everyone _assume I'm going to be rude to her?' He snapped, before knocking smartly on the door and calling through the warped wood, '_Miss O'Malley_?'

'Alright dear,' Mrs Hudson sighed, shuffling away in her slippers, the door clicking softly shut behind her. Irritation was stamped across Sherlock's face when he heard the soft, polite call of,

'Come in!'

Sherlock barrelled in through the doorway – and then paused. The apartment was transformed; what had been a cold, dark room filled only with a safety deposit box and, eventually, a pair of trainers, was now a warm room. A _home_. Cooker, sink and fridge all huddled in one corner, books lining up against one of the walls, a bed on the other side. A couple of beanbags and cushions piled on the floor – no television, but a battery-powered radio and a bath –

A bath containing Sophie and some conveniently placed bubbles. Bar her face and her painfully sharp shoulders, Sherlock could see nothing – but even those jarring collar bones set up the jingle of familiarity as he shook his head a little.

'Sorry, sorry, rude of me I know – hang on, turn around a second.'

Slowly, Sherlock turned, hearing the swish of water. His eyes shut for precaution, his hearing was heightened; he heard her light, familiar tread as she wrapped herself in a towel, the drip of water on the bare floorboards, the eventual rustle of fabric that told him she was pulling on clothes.

'I came about your radio,' he said through gritted teeth, his arms folded like a sulky child as he let his eyes flicker open to stare resolutely at the blue walls.

'Sit down, sit down,' Sophie beckoned warmly, 'you can turn round now.'

As he turned, Sherlock took a step backwards; Sophie had hurried past, pushing a bowl of something hot into his hands as she went to the fridge. Sherlock watched her with raised eyebrow for a moment as she rootled through, eventually finding what she was looking for with a successful cry. Sherlock half expected a bag of thumbs – it was, in fact, a bottle of wine.

'Want some?' She asked, waving the bottle, before repeating hurriedly, 'sit down!'

'What is this?' Sherlock asked, reluctantly moving towards the beanbags and giving the bowl a distasteful sniff as Sophie poured herself some wine and thrust a glass into Sherlock's free hand, which he gingerly placed onto the floor.

'Look, I only came down here to talk to you about –'

'It's homemade curry. Tastes better than that muck in a jar,' Sophie smiled, before digging a fork in a most un-ladylike manner into her meal. 'I'm always _starving _after a case, aren't you?' She smiled through her mouthful of food. Reluctantly, Sherlock took a taste of the curry and, not wanting to admit how nice it tasted, carried on slowly.

'Miss O'Malley –'

'Please, call me Sophie.'

He couldn't. This was ridiculous. He couldn't believe –

'I just came to ask you to turn down your radio,' he eventually forced out through Sophie's constant interruptions. She looked up from her curry swiftly, pushing the drying strands of hair away from her face. It was only now that he realised she was wearing an over-sized shirt, underwear and not much else – there was that same kick of recognition. And then something bigger. Surreptitiously, he raked his gaze over the shirt – blue and white stripes, running down to the top of her thigh.

It was _his_. From all those years ago. Squeezing his eyes shut for a bare second, he turned his expression to an icy cold one as she began,

'I can barely hear it in here – don't tell me you can hear it from upstairs?' She questioned him roughly – Sherlock could hear the irritation in her voice, grating against her throat as she scowled into her bowl. 'It's not that loud,' she mumbled.

'I – uh, have very sensitive hearing,' he told her, softened a little by her sloping shoulders as she moved her foot up and down in irritation.

'Well I'm not turning it down,' she grumbled, staring up at Sherlock with a sort of fiery defiance. 'You know, Mr Holmes, you've been quite rude to me today.'

'I'm like that with everyone.'

'Well, that's alright then,' Sophie sighed with a chime of tired laughter, standing up to put her bowl in the sink. Sherlock blinked; he had barely touched his meal and already she finished. He smuggled a smile; he wasn't used to this. Not from her. Standing, he ran a hand over his crumpled pyjama trousers as she dug a tub of ice cream out of the freezer and stood, spoon in hand, watching him as he turned the volume control on the radio down a little.

'You can take that up with you, if you like – just bring the bowl down.'

'Mmm,' Sherlock murmured, unconvinced as he gave her a dry smile. 'Thank you, Miss O'Malley.'

'I said, _Sophie_. Don't think I'm going to make a habit of calling you Mr Holmes.'

God, her constant teasing and smiles were irritatingly infectious. Keeping his gaze straight, he shut the door behind him with a smarting _click_, before pausing on the stairs, his head cocked to one side.

'Turn that radio back down!'

The radio was turned up louder, and Sherlock slumped on the sofa. It was still the Sophie he knew, of course, but – different. Changed. Glancing out of the window, he took in the street below him; dark already, what with winter's pressing night times, and somewhat miserable. It could almost be the street where they had first met.

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your reviews! Means so much to me and you are all very sweet. Hopefully this chapter answered any questions. (I thought I'd uploaded it already, got myself very confused!)**

**And I know there are lots of silent readers, I see all your alerts: if you could leave a review I would send you chocolate.**

**Like, internet chocolate. Which isn't REAL chocolate. But it's LIKE real chocolate. Almost. **

**xx**


	5. Chapter 5

_London was usually sunny – especially this time of year. Sherlock Holmes – currently under the name of Simon Halts – was on the move. On the prowl. Like a predator, he was on the case. He was twenty-two years old; young, naive in thinking he could hide from his brother and the rest of his family. He wore sweaters and chinos, dyed his hair a lighter brown and wore coloured contacts, changing his usually icy blue irises to an odd hazel colour. He had stubble on his chin, desperately tried to maintain a tan – to think, the great Sherlock Holmes actually spent time outside, all to hide from his brother. He knew, somewhere deep down, that Mycroft and those minions would find him eventually. And so he hid._

_As usual, a beggar hung on the street corner. She had a thin face, tiny frame and a straggle of knotted blonde hair. She looked ill, yet she still danced from foot to foot, chattering like a market owner to the crowds. As if she had something to sell them. She shook her cup a little, pitifully, constantly disturbing a dog sleeping at her feet, and Sherlock remembered the spare change he had in his pocket. As he approached, she directed a cheery beam his way;_

'_Afternoon, sir.' As the pennies dropped noisily into the cup, she bobbed down and continued, 'much obliged –' before cutting herself off. Sherlock was already wandering away when she called after him; 'hey, you're that bloke, aren't you?'_

_He ignored her but she skipped after him, dancing about almost constantly to shake the cold away from her bones. 'No, really, you are, aren't you?'_

'_Only you can answer that question,' he answered stiffly._

'_Simon Halts – we talk about you all the time?'_

'_Who's _we_.'_

'_Oh, just us lot. Anyway, you're the one who sent Riley to prison.' The girl's thick, Irish accent was constant and harsh, and even now Sherlock had stopped to talk to her, she still leapt from foot to foot. _

'_Riley, he, uh... He wasn't a friend, was he?' Sherlock asked, hiding his fear under a blank surface. The last thing he wanted was the wrath of gangs of homeless people put upon him._

'_No need to look so scared, Mr Halt. Most of us stick to casual pick-pocketing; bullying and murder does stain the clothes rather. He was the police man you proved was corrupt, didn't you? I saw your face on the tv through a window.' Here she quietened, seemed to check herself a little as she explained, 'us girls were all quite happy when he got put away.' _

_Sherlock noted the shiver run down the girl's spine just before she smothered it with a smile and an out-stretched hand. Quickly, Sherlock noted what she wore – a t-shirt and ragged denim shorts matched with fingerless gloves that were more holes than wool._

'_Sophie O'Malley, eighteen years old – someone nicked my coat last night. An Irish bastard who told me he'd stolen it _"just to see what I would do". _Posh cunt – that was my Dad's coat. But he'll bring it back; he's probably some grunt in the criminal rings. They know what we can be like if someone pisses us off – barely saw his face, he was so quick.'_

_Sherlock nodded slowly, before telling this girl as politely as possible, 'I have to go –'_

'_- Let me guess. Working on a case? That's why I stopped you, sir. We can help you – us homeless. We're the eyes and ears of London – let me show you. Have you got a photo of the victim – for the case, I mean?' Sophie asked eagerly, her usually dull eyes shining. Reluctantly, Sherlock produced his phone, showing a grainy photo to Sophie to study. 'Ah, yeah. Poison – you can see the facium from the veins in his eyes. It's virtually untraceable unless you test the blood with vinegar and universal indicator. I'd say your most likely suspect is Jason Dark down on Abbey Road. Facium's very illegal but he has his ways. It'll either be him or one of his customers.'_

_Sherlock stared at this girl for a long while until she shrugged._

'_My A Level Biology Coursework was on illegal poisons. You'd be surprised what we all know; Sheila, she's got a spot ten minutes from here, can identify the make of a knife used from a person's wound, and Tommy down by the Tower of London's only homeless because no one wants to rent out flats to someone who keeps fingers in his fridge. I got an A Biology – at least,' she paused, tilting her head to one side and screwing up her mouth a little irritably, 'I would have, if I'd gone to the exam.'_

'_So what are you suggesting? I give you money and you give me information?'_

'_Exactly. In one week every trustworthy homeless from here to Portobello Road will know your face. They'll say something – I don't know what yet, but you'll know it. A phrase – an unusual one, just to you. Give them some money and you'll have your information. Think of it as an investment.'_

'_I tend to think of investments more as gambles, I'm afraid.'_

'_Suit yourself, sir. You might want to reclaim your wallet in, say, a week or so. Just ask one of us,' Sophie winked._

'_What –' but a wallet – _his _wallet – was being flashed under his nose as Sophie began to back away slowly – _teasingly_. Her eyes fluttered almost lustily toward a policeman, as if she were just waiting for the call._

'_Police! Stop that woman – she has my wallet!'_

_As soon as the police man's head had turned Sophie was away, somehow shimmying up a lamppost only to leap onto a window-sill._

'_One week, sir, and I promise they homeless network will not fail you. Good bye, Mr Halts!'_

_And then, with a spectacular swing and a flip, Sophie was on the rooftop and at the top of a building before the policeman had even managed to speak into his walkie-talkie. _

And from then on he had been hooked. He had, of course, gotten his wallet back, and tried to ensure through the network that she received an old parka coat of his – a parka coat that was still hung up in her flat. She had probably got back the coat from the _"posh cunt" _who had stolen it; she wouldn't keep a gift that long. Still – maybe it was. She had kept the shirt, after all.

**A/N:**

**Thank you to: 88dragon06 – your regular reviews are awesome. And I know, Sherlock's such a pain in the arse. AlfieTimeWolf - thank you! Nice to know you like it :) prettygal456 – well thank you kindly! You're very sweet. SQUEEEE to you too! PoppyRobinson089 – thank you very much! Keeping it up right away. Sky Writes – you are too kind! PotterSherlocketc – OI YOU I JUST READ YOUR LATEST CHAPTER. I liked it! **

**Everyone should go read "New Beginnings" by PotterSherlocketc by the ways. It's awesome. **

**Bye for now! Hope you liked this chapter. I love writing flashbacks, and there are more to come! They filter out around chapter 20-ish.**

**Ooooh I love around chapter 20-ish. **

**Sophie's such a badass in this chapter. FACIUM IS MADE UP, BY THE WAY. IT'S NOT A REAL THING. **

**The rest of you! I know you're out there :) if you review I will love you forever! xx**


	6. Chapter 6

He heard Sophie leave her apartment some time in the afternoon the next day – in fact, the noise of her departure jogged him from a hanging sleep. Wretchedly, he jumped from the sofa, pulling his coat on, and "accidentally" met the tiny girl at the door. Sherlock knew exactly where she was going, knew she would ask for his company, and hated that he had to play on her kindness. And he _still _couldn't get rid of that jolt of familiarity whenever he saw her. And he _still _couldn't believe she didn't recognise him –

Still. Excitement called. Sophie stood at the front door, unsurprisingly wrapped up in an enormous Parka – one that Sherlock knew was very old and had once belonged to her father – fumbling with her keys.

'Oh, Sherlock! Lestrade just told me to meet him at Scotland Yard – probably about the gallery robbery. I heard about it on the news – do you want to come? Lestrade will probably text you later anyway, and it's cheaper to share a taxi –'

'I don't do the mundane, Miss O'Malley,' Sherlock answered coldly.

'If it were mundane Lestrade wouldn't need our help,' Sophie answered, pulling the hood on her coat up so its fur framed her face almost ridiculously. 'There's been a break in but no one knows what's missing. Could just be teenagers mucking about, but it's the thirteenth to have happened in one week – _thirteen_. That's almost two a day. Maybe by the same person –' and suddenly she interrupted herself, leaning forwards with eyes that shone like beacons in the dim hall. 'Isn't it _exciting_?' She laughed as she successfully unlocked the door and stepped into the pelting rain. 'Coming?'

'I suppose,' Sherlock shrugged, raising his hand at a passing taxi as he shut the door behind them.

The two travelled in silence for a while, Sophie tapping away at her phone, quietly content. Sherlock was utterly composed – other than the tapping of his foot. He hated waiting when excitement was so close, but it was either traffic jams or the tube, and he couldn't handle the fuss and bustle of it for more than a few minutes.

Abruptly, a wave of smell hit them – a takeaway opening its doors – and Sophie let out a small groan.

'Do you want to stop and get some food? I think I can smell Chinese – or Thai, maybe.'

'What day is it?'

'Thursday,' Sophie replied.

'I can last for now. I don't eat on the case.'

'What?'

'Digestion slows me down,' Sherlock explained, his voice low as he peered out of the window, trying to work out how much longer the curling line of traffic was. He listened to the cacophony of blaring horns and the crash of rain against the cab's roof, only half listening to Sophie. When he had tuned back in, she was snapping, almost to herself,

'That's stupid.' She twisted in her seat, turning on him as she picked up again, 'your brain barely works without proper nourishment – it's like trying to do an exam on no sleep. You know, your brain can work at a greater capacity of about fifty percent if you have breakfast -'

'I can't believe I'm getting the food lecture from _you_.'

There was a sickening beat of silence. Sophie took in a shaky breath before shooting back,

'_Piss off, _Sherlock. Why are you so rude to me, anyway? I don't – I don't even _know _you. I know you've passed out on a case twice before – judging by the state of your cufflinks – so don't be such a _fucking _hypocrite. You know how...' Sophie trailed off, taking another deep breath, her fists clenching, her face pinched and white. 'Do you know how bloody hard I try?' And because the taxi hadn't moved in ten minutes, Sophie stepped out onto the pavement, slamming the door shut. Sherlock watched her retreat a few steps before returning, tearing the door open. Her limbs shook with anger as she began to explain.

'Six months ago I was a detective with the police force – just some shitty local work in Ireland. But for once something _exciting_ happened – a man was holding a child hostage. He had some intricate bomb system wired up – said I had to play some _stupid_ game in thirty seconds or the girl would die. And I fainted because the last thing I had eaten ended up in the toilet. By the time I came round this poor little girl – she was dead and two weeks later I was fired. But _you_ – you still haven't learnt, you don't eat to be difficult and prove a point. Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes and you're _so _special you don't need to eat – and the sad thing is you don't even realise you're putting other people in danger. And then you call _me _a hypocrite? Well you can play your own fucking taxi fair.'

And just as the door was slammed shut again, the taxi moved out of the trickle of traffic and into a free lane. Sherlock watched Sophie move towards the tube station until she was out of sight.


End file.
